


For Love or Money

by Nope



Category: Spider-Man (Movies - Raimi)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-12-14
Updated: 2008-12-14
Packaged: 2018-01-25 04:53:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1632566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nope/pseuds/Nope
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>May Parker goes to the bank.  She doesn't have much luck, really.</p>
            </blockquote>





	For Love or Money

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Liliaeth

 

 

 _He was a, a thief! A criminal! He stole my suit! He's a menace_  
to the entire city! I want that wall-crawling arachnid prosecuted!  
I want him strung up by his web! **I want Spider-Man!**  
\-- Alvin Sargent, Spider-Man 2

Life went happily on, May tiredly mused, shuffling forward with the rest of the line. Seconds fell over into minutes, hours into days, always carrying you on; no stop until the final one. How long had Ben been gone now? Three years? Five? It felt recent and eternal, all at once. And here she was, plodding on through the intractable mundanities of existence. Like banking, and groceries if she managed to get out of here before the stores closed because, seriously, she moved faster than that damn teller and she was, well, seventy, May decided; a nice round number, that would do. Life went on, was the thing, with all its highs and lows and boring bits and mild irritations like endless queues and whoever it was she could hear shouting - really, how rude! - and you went on with it, one tiny step after another.

Although generally not steps these small or with such long gaps between them. May nudged the customer in front of her.

"Young man," she said, in her best, 'placate the helpless tiny old woman' voice, "you wouldn't be able to see what the hold-up is from up there, would you? I don't think my knees will take much more of this."

The boy - who was practically Peter's age, May realized, and wouldn't appreciate the title; a rather tall, dark-skinned fellow with a nice smile and the most curls she'd ever seen on one person - the young man chuckled. "Mine neither. When Coach told me to take it easy, I don't think this is quite what he meant."

May tutted. "They should have a line solely for the elderly and the infirm."

"They forced you to cut back on the basketball, too, huh."

"They were just jealous of my jump shot," May said primly and he laughed.

"Well, I may not be able to jump high enough to tell what's keeping the teller," the young man said, smiling, "but I can see a bench just over there if you want to sit this round out. I'll hold your spot for you."

"Oh!" May smiled. "Would you, dear?"

"Sure." He nodded. "It's no problem."

The man behind them snorted. A shaven-headed, stocky, greasy looking fellow; May took an instant dislike to him, even before he said, "the old broad ain't shoving back in front. You step out of place, you lose it lady."

"Well, I never!" said May, hefting her handbag.

"It's cool," the young man said, raising his hands in placating fashion. "You can go in front too." He stepped back a little to let the man pass. "No harm, no foul."

"Whatever," the guy said, taking the offered place, deliberately shoulder-barging the young man on the way past.

"Some people," said May in a pointedly loud whisper and then pursed her lips when the greasy man flipped her off.

"It's cool," repeated the young man, with an easy acceptance that suddenly reminded May of Ben; she had to blink her eyes to keep them clear. "I'll wave you in when I'm up front."

"Thank you," she said, touching a hand to his arm, before heading towards the indicated seating.

It was only as she was sinking gratefully down on the cushioned wood that it occurred to her she'd never asked the young man his name. She would. His sports jacket had been NYU colours; perhaps Peter knew him. May chuckled to herself. Her nephew was not one to hang with jocks -- she cut the thought off. It was unfair to judge people by first impressions, a bad habit she found herself slipping more and more into these days. Take how she had reacted to that nice Spider-Man! And then he had quite saved her life, with her help, of course. Ben would have made such sport of her for it. Silly old woman.

The bank clock clicked slowly overhead. Another day, another dollar, mostly owed instead of earned these days. Good lord but banks were depressing. Best not to think about it. She amused herself making up biographies for the people around her. The nice young man holding her place in the queue would obviously go on to be an NBA All-Star. The greasy ruffian was probably a used-car salesman - no, that would require at least some charm. The petite blonde over there in the costume jewellery and senseless shoes was obviously an aspiring actor, though clearly not a patch on sweet Mary Jane, even if she had broken poor Peter's heart, maybe. The thin man in the impeccable suit, leaning calmly on his umbrella was clearly a spy. The plump Latino woman, talking breezily in a rolling mix of Spanish and English to everyone around her, was clearly a club owner, something jazzy and just borderline burlesque. And the man with the stupid moustache kind of looked like the editor of that rag Peter sold those pictures to, the one always going on about how that nice Spider-Man was a crook and a thief. In fact, the man looked more than a little like-- Indeed, he bore a striking resemblance to--

"Mister Jameson!" May cried, half-surprised to find herself already on her feet, but going with it, waving her handbag to part the crowd between her and her target. "Mister Jameson - a word, if you please!"

"What?" he snapped, barely looking up from the papers in his hand. "Oh, yes, always good to meet a fan, thank you, have a nice day."

He started off again. The nerve of the man! May pushed her way back into his path.

"I," she huffed loudly, "am not a fan; certainly not of your ... twaddle!"

"Twaddle." Jameson lifted his head to look at her properly. "Twaddle?" His volume increased with each repetition. "Twaddle?!"

"I said twaddle and I meant it," May said firmly, "and don't you go raising your voice to me." A rather familiar voice, come to think of it. "Oh! That was you, bullying that young teller lady when she was just trying to do her job! Shame on you!"

"If people did their jobs, I wouldn't have to shout at them," Jameson snapped back. "A major metropolitan newspaper doesn't run itself, you know!"

"Judging by some of the front pages you run," May said, "I'd rather supposed it did!"

"You read them," Jameson said.

"Well, of course I--" May snapped her mouth closed.

"Then my job here is done," Jameson said, smugly, and not a little pompously. "Good day, madam!"

He stepped around her. May stepped right back into his path.

"I'm not one to stand on violence or revenge," she said, "but were my Ben still with us, I would have him clobber you one. Right in the kisser, Mister Jameson!"

"In the -- what? Lady," Jameson said, "I don't know who you are--"

"That's right!" May exclaimed. "You don't!" There was a slight pause as they both considered this. "I mean, I'm a concerned consumer," May corrected herself. "A reader - your audience!"

"If you don't like the paper, don't read it," Jameson said. "Give it to someone else. Use it to line your, your kennel or your birdcage or your mattress or whatever you have. Make little paper dolls out of it. Who doesn't love arts and crafts?"

"I could just not buy it at all," May pointed out.

Jameson chuckled. "Now, now, let's not be too hasty! Write me a letter, I'll print it. Might have to edit it a little for space and content, you can read the small print, it's right there on the page. Don't read it at the newsstand; they hate that."

"I expect to be taken seriously," May began.

"I expect my accountants to take care of things so I don't have to come down to the bank in the middle of the day," Jameson said, "so we're both disappointed. What can I say?"

"You can apologize," May said firmly, "for writing all that rubbish about Spider-Man!"

He stared at her.

"It's libel," May added. "You should be ashamed."

"Why do I keep-- If he's got a problem with it, he can sue me," Jameson said. "Has he sued me? No! Case closed!"

"Well, of course he hasn't," May said waspishly. "He's a hero--"

Jameson barked laughter. "He's a criminal! A vigilante! A public menace! Real heroes don't wear masks, they don't fight crime in their pyjamas, and they don't crack wise while someone is robbing the place!"

"Someone is robbing the place," May said in a tight voice.

"That's what I said." Jameson nodded, fishing a cigar out of his jacket pocket and raising his voice over the yells around them. "And another--"

"No," May said, nodding her head past him. "Someone is really robbing the place! Oh, my!"

They were. Two, three guys in masks with guns. No four, and May was more than half sure that was the greasy guy up front there, except she didn't get that good a look, because Jameson was pulling her down behind a desk.

"I'll give you fifty bucks if you have a camera," he hissed at her.

"Why would I--?" She smacked his arm with her handbag. "There is a time and place, Mister Jameson!"

"Yes, and this is it: prime news, happening right now! I must learn to carry a camera around with me. Maybe get one of those phones with the doohickeys, shop it up a bit." He pulled his cigar out of his pocket, looked at it, shoved it back in again. "What's going on? Take a look!"

"Take a look?!" May glared at him. "You take a look!"

"How about you both take a look?" One of the robbers, a pudgy guy in a black bomber jacket, stood right over them. He swung his surprisingly compact looking pistol in a lazy arc from Jameson to May and back again.

"Oh," May chuckled nervously, putting her hands up, "no, no, we're okay here, thank--" The gun came back her way and she let out an undignified yelp despite herself.

"Weren't asking, lady." Pudgy waved his pistol. "Get over there with the rest of them."

May sighed. "I really should just get Peter to do all my banking for me."

They both stood, which let them see that the robbers had forced the rest of the customers to sit huddled together under the teller windows. May's eyes slipped across the crowd - she couldn't focus. A flash of costume jewellery, a glitter of tears. Mouths open, mouths closed. The thin man, all folded up on himself, wrapped around his umbrella, little baby cling. That nice young man, all nervous bravery.

Lovely hair, May thought, Ben had such lovely hair.

"Down," Pudgy ordered.

"I can't," May said. "I can't -- my knees!" She made it a tremulous whine. Too much? Pudgy didn't seem impressed either way.

"You get down," he said, hefting the gun at her, "or I put you down, see?"

"Young man," May started in and, over her, one of the others - black ski-mask not quite covering those huge eyebrows, swarthy, like they said in the movies - asked, "problem?"

Jameson chuckled hugely, big man-of-the-world sound. He had his cigar out, unlit but clamped between his teeth. "Daily Bugle, sir. Comment for the press?"

Swarthy racked his shotgun.

"Stop messing around," yelled the guy May was sure was the greasy man from where he was bullying the slow teller into shoving fistfuls of dollars into a black bag. Almost sure. She would have turned around to look, but there were two guns on her now.

Ben got himself killed because he stood up, she thought. It didn't connect to anything. There was no conclusion. Move. Don't move. Come on, May.

"Everything's under control here," Jameson said, nodding his head at Pudgy. "We'll just take a seat over there, let you get on with your business--"

"Just sit the hell down!" Swarthy bellowed.

"I will not be bullied!" May exclaimed, rather to her surprise. She was sure if she'd meant to say that, it would have come out a little less shrill. "You can get right on with robbing these poor people without waiting for me."

"Hey, hey--" It was the nice young man, suddenly at her side. "I'll help her."

"I do not want to be helped," May insisted.

"Let the boy help you," Jameson ordered at the same time, out of the corner of his mouth.

"Sit your punk ass down!" Pudgy bellowed over the both of them, shaky gun swinging wildly across all three. Swarthy was heading over too, shotgun swinging.

"No, no!" The nice man said, his hands up defensively. "I'm helping. It's cool. It's good. See--" He put his hands on May to guide her. "We're all cool, here. You just, you stay cool, and we'll stay cool, and everything's--"

"I swear to god--!"

"Son, son," said Jameson calmly. "Murder one does you no good. Straight forward robbery, boo-hoo a little in court, good behaviour, you'll be out in five. I'll cut you a deal; Bugle exclusive, three grand when you get out. Now, you can't say fairer than that."

Swarthy was up in his face now. Not a talkative fellow. Jameson stood his ground, but the other man - younger, strong, better armed - shoved at him.

"Okay, okay, five grand," he said, stepping back, moving away from May and others. "Outrageous price, best I can offer."

"See," the nice man said, "you can sit down here, okay, ma'am? There's no need for the gun, sir." His hands were on her, trying to help her down. She wasn't going. She was. There was too much going on. Jameson was retreating. He was leading the other man away. May couldn't tell which. Maybe both. Opportunist.

Seize the fish, Ben said, and little Peter complained, laughing, no, Unc'a Ben, you got it wrong, you

There was a shot, loud, too loud, one in her head and one out of it, real and close and she screamed, except it wasn't Swarthy or Pudgy on the trigger, definitely not Pudgy, because he was going back, hole in his shoulder, wet all down his jacket, and Swarthy spun round, and so was May, she realised, not just the world spinning off its axis, the nice man, pulling her down and around and she saw, damn if it wasn't greasy man, the real first one, his coat open now, big shiny badge on his belt and a big shiny gun in his hand and his voice all big and

"NYPD! Freeze--"

and he had the other two covered, Pudgy going down, Swarthy and Not Greasy covered, except, four, weren't there four? and sirens going off in her head, no, outside too, slow teller's gotten her hand in too, alarms silent and not so, and how could so much be happening all at once, there was no time, and she was turning and there were screams and ringing bells and Swarthy brought his gun up and Greasy Cop did likewise, except there were four guys and number four was - double blam of shots - smashing Greasy Cop in the back of his head with - and then May couldn't see any more, because she was tumbling, down, down, down, and only the nice man being half on, half under her stopped her breaking something (hip) on the fake marble of the bank floor.

Breathe, she told herself. Just like at Ben's funeral. Breathe. Do that first. Breathe.

"Now, that's a real hero," Jameson said. He was somehow right next to her. Still had the cigar. "Courageous! Self-sacrificing! No tights!"

Breathe, May thought, and did.

Jameson's hands were on the nice young man, moving him. It made it easier. She started to thank him. To thank them both. Except as she lifted her arm, May could see there was a hole in her coat. Punched right through. Now, how did that happen. How did. Oh. Oh, my. She was almost. If it hadn't been for.

The nice guy moaned, clutching at his arm. Blood oozed down over his fingers.

"Oh no!" May wailed.

"Only a flesh wound, son," Jameson said cheerfully. "Went right through. You'll live. One time, got too close to the print rolls, near cut my thumb right off. Still, they say a bit of blood in the presses is a good thing."

The bank robbers were arguing. The bank customers were huddled up, some crying, whimpering, making frantic noises. The alarms were going. Jameson's voice somehow cut right across all this, like he had no setting below loud. No on but full.

"I got shot," the nice guy said. Disbelief and wonder and pain in his voice.

The robbers were arguing over the downed cop. May couldn't do anything about that. She could do something about this. Simple first aid training.

"We need to stop the bleeding." She snapped her fingers at Jameson. "Give me your tie?"

"What?!" Jameson glared. "That's genuine silk, lady! Use your own."

"Do I look like I have a tie?" May grabbed for his. "Besides, this is polyester."

"Cost as much as silk," Jameson grumbled, knocking her fingers away, but only so he could pull it off.

She took it from him with an acerbic "Thank you" and turned back to the nice young man. "I'm just going to wrap this for. Now, it might pinch a little."

"Don't coddle the boy," Jameson said. "He just got shot. I like that. Human interest, that's what sells. Strong young hero saves fragile old woman--"

May reached out without looking and slapped his arm.

"The copy might need some work," Jameson said, glaring for a moment, before turning back to man. "The story is there, though. We'll need a bit of background, nothing too much."

"Shouldn't you wait until we get out of here before you compose your front page?" May asked, knotting the tie around the young man's arm. It was bloody, but not, at least to her eye, that bad. They had both been impossibly lucky. So far. The bank robbers' argument was getting louder.

"Nonsense," Jameson was saying. "Any delay and I get scooped by those bastards at the Globe. Do you want to be in the Globe? Of course not. Bugle exclusive, son. You look like a James, or a Mark. Maybe a David; that's good for headlines."

"My name's Chad," said the young man.

"Chad?" Jameson pulled a face. "No, that's not working for me. What about John? That's a good strong name."

"Yeah," coughed Chad, "but my name is Chad, so--"

"I think it's a very nice name," May assured him, patting his arm gently. "I'm May Parker. The blustery man is Mister Jameson."

"Hey." Chad blinked. "I know you."

"Course you do, son," Jameson said. "Five million readers."

"Not you," Chad said, nodding at May. "You're Peter's aunt, right? He's in my High Energy Physics labs."

"You know my nephew?" Not just a jock then, May thought, feeling foolish and a little embarrassed. She kept misjudging people. Chad. The policeman. Spider-Man. Jam-- well, maybe not Jameson, who was exactly as much of a skinflint blow-hard as Peter had suggested. Oh, Peter.

Also, now she thought about it, yelling at the man who paid her nephew was perhaps not the best of things she could do for him.

Jameson's fuming, it appeared, had distracted him from putting the names together. May started to say something, to change the subject, when she realised it wasn't just his fuming that was distracting. They had caught the bank robbers' attention again. Possibly because of the aforementioned inability of Jameson to blend in.

"You!" yelled Not Greasy. All three of them made 'who, me?' gestures. "You, paper guy. You're coming with us."

"You've reconsidered the exclusive," Jameson asked, cigar moving from one corner of his mouth to the other. "Let me just call for a photographer--"

"You're our ticket out of here," Not Greasy interrupted.

Why didn't they just go out the front door, May wondered, pushing herself back up to look. Oh. Because there were police cars out there. Give them their due, sometimes New York cops were the best and the brightest after all -- she felt mean as soon as she thought it. Too much blame for Ben, too many people to spread it around on. She looked back at Jameson in time to see him be punched in the face. The cigar went flying. May gasped.

"You can get a press helicopter in," Swarthy was saying. "No cop is going to shoot at the media."

May slowly clambered to her feet, shaking off Chad's warning hand when he tried to stop her.

"A newspaper is a powerful thing," Jameson agreed, rubbing at his lip. "I have a hundred people, relying on me to keep it afloat, to bring them stories; any one of them would--"

"You, lady!" It was Cop Hitter. "You know first aid?" He was tending to Pudgy. There was blood smeared on the floor. "Get over here, help me!"

"--get your story out," Jameson continued, "so here's what I'm thinking--"

"Get over here!" Cop Hitter yelled at May, heading towards her.

"What I'm thinking," Not Greasy said, "is you shut up and call us some transport, Paper Man."

Jameson chuckled. "The Bugle has never wasted money on such twaddle and we're hardly going to start--"

Swarthy hefted his shotgun. "You wanna piece of--"

Cop Hitter reached out for May. "I said, get--"

Thwip! Thwip! Yoink! Woosh! Smack! Thunk!

Swarthy stared in surprise at his empty hands, and then everyone looked over to watch Cop Hitter crash to the floor, Swarthy's web-wrapped shotgun bouncing off him as they went down. There was a long pause. Finally someone coughed, and they all looked up.

"Spider-Man!" Jameson roared. "I knew you'd have your insect paws mixed up in this!"

"You know spiders don't have paws, right?" Spider-Man asked, and then Not Greasy was there, his gun up and firing, and Spider-Man wasn't, blurring across the room between the bullets. His grace was as pure as it was alien, ballerina violence, taut and coiled, loose and liquid, all at once. The inhuman beauty of it was breath taking.

Except for Jameson, apparently. "Come to help your pals out or to rip them off, you wall-crawling freak!"

"Mister Jameson!" May yelled at him. "I have never, in all my life, met anyone as obstinate as you! He's clearly rescuing us!"

"Look!" Jameson pointed as Spider-Man shot a web-line out to snag the bag the slow teller had been filling with cash. "He's stealing the cash!"

"Really," May sighed as the web-line went taut, whipping the bag up and across the room to smack Not Greasy in the chest. "A man should put the truth before his personal issues."

Swarthy, having gotten hold of Pudgy's dropped handgun, started ducking behind desks, snapping off shots. He wouldn't have been much of a problem if the rest of the bank customers / hostages hadn't chosen that moment to all start scrambling for the doors.

"See?" Jameson waved a hand at them. "Fleeing in terror! They see Spider-Man for what he is."

"Obviously," May said dryly, "they couldn't possibly be running from the men with the guns."

"Obviously!" Jameson snapped back, and then, "Watch it!"

"Watch what?" May asked, and then yelped when Swarthy grabbed her from behind.

"Back off, Spidey," he yelled, right in her ear no less. "I'll kill her, I swear to--"

May, who had just about as much of this as she could stand, stomped as hard as she could on his foot. Swarthy yelled, shoving at her. The moment there was a gap, both a web-line and Jameson's fist filled it. Yanked one way and punched the other, Swarthy stumbled around in a full circle, opened his mouth to speak, made an odd gurgling noise instead, and then fell over backwards. He was webbed for good measure, as were the other three criminals.

"Well done, Spider-Man," May cheered.

"Spider-Man? Spider-Man?! That was my punch!" Jameson roared. "The old Jameson one-two!"

"You hit him once," May said.

"That's the Jameson spirit," Jameson insisted. "No one ever needs the two."

"Are you okay?" Spider-Man asked, dropping down between them.

"No thanks to you, you masked menace!" Jameson yelled.

"Are you even on the same planet as the rest of us?" May yelled right back at him. In a more moderated tone, she added to Spider-Man, "we're fine; thank you for asking."

"You're bleeding--"

"It's not mine," May assured him, dabbing at her coat, and then, "oh, dear! Chad!"

"There are paramedics outside," Jameson said. "Proper heroes," he added jabbing a finger at Spider-Man and missing completely. "You can be sure my headline will reflect that!"

"So what else is new?" Spider-Man asked, taking a step back and then jumping straight up, eight feet, more, to catch the edge of the window and bend and swing and fire a line and, in one long, smooth movement he was gone.

"I don't believe you," May told them, as police officers and paramedics started coming in. "You have a responsibility to your readers--"

"Damn right I do," Jameson said, looking around them. "They want to see the real people. They want the gossip, the action, and the big headlines. Big flashy stories! You know who else I have a responsibility to? Those hundred employees of mine. Big flashy stories gets us the money to chase the small, important stories."

"Of those to whom much is given, much is required," May insisted. "Five million readers, you said, relying on you to be fair and impartial, to use that influence wisely and - what is it you said? Courageously! Self-sacrificially!" She waved off the paramedic trying to get her attention, pointing at Chad. "You should be setting an example for all of us. Everybody loves a hero."

"And I'm going to give them one," Jameson said, bending down. "Me! That cop! These people! John, there!"

"It's still Chad," Chad called as the paramedics tended to his arm.

"Whatever." Jameson waved this off, straightening triumphantly, cigar in hand. He brushed it off against his shirt as he continued, "I'm giving people what they need: examples, as you say, of ordinary people behaving in extraordinary ways, be it as failed criminals--" He waved his hand at the bank robbers. "--or as triumphant heroes." He waved a hand at himself, popping his cigar in his mouth and wincing when it caught his bruised lip.

May stared at him. "How is that not Spider-Man?!"

Jameson stared straight back. "He walks on walls!"

"You're editorialising reality!" May snapped. "The world doesn't work like that!"

"Listen here you old--"

"Finish that sentence and I'll give you another thick lip," May groused. "You should get someone to look at that; I can't think how you would cope without being able to yell all the time; you might have to listen for once!"

"You should get someone to look at you," Jameson returned. "All this knocking about can't be good for someone of your obviously well advanced years!"

"Why you," May started and Jameson just kept right on over her with "could we get a doctor here for the old," and May yelled "Mister Jameson, you can just," and then their voices were lost under and over each other's, clashing and merging into the general cacophony as the bustling, yellow-jacketed paramedics moved around them, helping the last trailing hostages out, tending to cuts and hysteria or clustering around Chad and Greasy Cop, helping to move Pudgy out while some blue-black uniformed policemen carried the other web-wrapped robbers towards the waiting paddy-wagon and yet more policemen who were putting up crime-scene tape and moving the gathering crowd back and waving blocked cars on into the dispersing streams of traffic and, somewhere high above them, above the rising shouts and yells and cheers and sirens and engines, a simple thwip thwip rhythm cut the day into endless seconds of perfect swinging motion over the friendly neighbourhood. Life, happily, went on.

 


End file.
